In
writing on 09.17.09 at 12:15:00 AM
if we can write the future
using quills made from the
feathers of a phoenix
on it’s last time around
our burn, then
we should make sure
that each comma
and semi-colon (i love
semi-colons; you know)
and period and sentence is
like your finger tracing down
the spine of dusty leather book
left at the back of
the shelf; mainly because
we know that to read it might just
mean that it has an ending.
if we can forget our past
like a jet forcing our hearts
back against the history
of atoms racing over each end
of our wing in that color of
forced condensation like that
night the taxi lights held
the other side of our world
at bay long enough to lose
ourselves in the alleys
that were really meant for you
and now and not them and then.
if we live our presence out
of this space we each are breathing
inside the magnet of
amplified worldwide electrons
playing the splaying of the laying
of every progression that
we both know echoes louder
than an eclipse and softer
than a concern.
In
writing on 08.11.09 at 12:19:45 PM
when i was four i fell in
love with a woman named
Stephanie who flew away
as she had appeared
with the exchange of a
land that can only be
fathomed by photographers
who leave the frame open
too long.
when i was fourteen i fell
for that girl who i hadn’t
noticed talking in a tongue
that only the mountain men
understand after they
spend nights wandering through
the hills mixed with Pyrenees
like the wild cry left by the
hand of a painter we all argue
about the existence of.
when i was twenty-four i
flew across the dried out
ocean of years gone past
like Odysseun happenstance
to that location just above the
explorers belt where he hangs
a knife sharp with
moments washing away every
gathered bauble of recently carved
rivers.
now that i am thirty i see
that every drop down the well
with a bucket tied to ropes
bound and braided by a life spent
knowing that love is what destiny
wishes it could be,
that affection is what fate
could never hope to be.
now that i am thirty i see
that every voyage is just
chaos casting a sail
and we,
we are left to imperfectly
navigate a new direction home.
In
writing on 08.06.09 at 03:07:06 PM
Otis Redding//Love Man
there is a town just off the coast
of that country you and i
visit
in our dreams when
not
separate like the atoms
split mirroring each other’s turn.
there is a gown tusseled on the floor
of that cottage you and i
build
in our letters when
silence
seems to take a road
joined after diverging through ferns.
there is the pack bound and braided
to my back where you
can
place all of those weights
even
just to take a break from your
translucent butterfly winged verve.
In
life,
writing on 07.24.09 at 07:36:01 PM
This to a certain extent is an exposition on my life and my thoughts over the past couple of weeks. For those of you that enjoy just reading the short aspects of poetry, I will understand if you skip on past this. However, the key to most of my poetry on here does inhabit this somewhere, don’t ask me where though :).
Continue down this rabbit hole »
